Kindred Spirits
by stretchingthelimits
Summary: When Maren arrives in Jorrvaskr, she is drawn to Farkas, and he to her. Updates will be infrequent, I plan on updating when the muse strikes...
1. Chapter 1

Her eyes were dark like his. Her hair was dark like his. Her skin was dark—for a Nord—like his. She was quiet like him. As the Companions drank and reveled at a successful heist, she simply stood near the fire with an ale in her hands.

He wanted to stand next to her.

"Hi." He said quietly to her.

She looked so much smaller in regular clothing than she had while they were fighting the Silver Hand. Her armor was wide and heavy—the plates of orichalcum broadening her shoulders, widening her biceps. In her blue dress her body looked like a normal woman's—soft, curvy, narrow. She didn't look like the beast of destruction that had led the Companion's assault on their enemies. She was interesting to him.

"Hi." She responded. There was a hint of a smile on her face. The hand print of warpaint across her mouth twisted slightly as her cheeks lifted.

"You're not bothered by this?" He said quietly. He knew that she would take his meaning as he mieant it—he didn't mean the revelry, the joy at recovering the shards of Wuuthrad. He meant her sudden, accidental knowledge that many of her new companions were werewolves.

She shook her head and took a swallow of her ale.

"You're not the only one with secrets."

"You know I want to hear yours now."

She was suddenly debating what bad would come of owning her identity. This dark man that had led her through joining the companions was calling to her though. When she first met him, there was something constrained within his strangely tight skin; something flickering behind the dark light in his eyes. It was something that she now understood. Ever since she had watched his bones stretch, his flesh rent as his body surrendered to the soul of the wolf inside of him—ever since he had corrected her mistake, she had been carefully following him.

"I could come up with a few for you." She watched as his eyes lit upon her lips, slid down to the crease between her breasts. He slowly nodded, and she saw a different fire burning in him than before. He took his hand and let his fingers caress the fabric that held her arms in.

"Tell me what there is to tell, before you show me the rest."

She liked the open sky. She liked fire. She didn't like enclosing walls anymore; they didn't make her feel safe. She needed the freedom of open horizons or empty woods.

She felt like she had been trapped between walls for too long, so she grabbed him by the side of his chest plate and pulled him around the fire pit and pulled him outside.

The tables outside had more food on them, more ale and wine, and since her ale was gone, she lifted from the middle of one table the bottle of hot wine from its bed of glowing coals; he had lifted two shining cups from another table and she stepped close to him, as she filled the cups, hoping to fill some of his fire.

He was often accused of being slow, but now as he felt her skirts brush against the unarmored skin of his knees, he silenced his brother's voice in his head. He was patient. He was unwavering. He was certain.

"You've heard that the dragonborn has surfaced in Whiterun?" She asked, slipping rough calloused fingers around one of the cups in his hand.

He was not slow. He had seen the way her arms were stronger than they had any right to be. He had heard the way her voice had shook the walls of the cave, had made the very earth tremble. He had seen the way she tried to hide it, and the way she seemed to look at him with a hint of hope in her eyes.

"So we keep the beast-blood hidden, and you keep the dragon's?" The hard lines of her face softened.

She nodded. "It is a lot of power to try and hide."

She reached up and scratched her straight nose.

"It is a lot of power when you do not want it."

"Some of us do not want the beast blood any more."

"You?" She asked. He noticed her eyes had settled on his own mouth, and forced himself not to smile.

"I… haven't decided." He admitted.

"I just want my choices to be my own. I want to be Maren—as I should have been born." She swallowed her hot wine and brought her dark eyes back to his.

"You wonder if your fate or your soul is more important." Her eyes crinkled as she took in his words.

"I knew I wanted to speak with you for a reason." She said.

Farkas made his move. She was making it clear to him what she wanted the way she kept stepping closer to him even though he refused to move his feet, the way her eyes would linger on his mouth long after he had stopped responding to her.

His hand found its way around her hipbone, and he couldn't help but dig his fingers into her solid flesh. Even though she looked delicate, she was made of out muscle and dragon bone. The heat in her muscled torso almost seared the skin from his hands.

He gasped.

She smiled.

"Wait." She whispered. She raised her glass of wine to her lips and swallowed the remaining liquid. He grinned and followed her lead, refusing to let her hip away from his hand. The hot wine wasn't enough to muddle his head, at least not yet, just enough to make him bolder and more forward than he would regularly let himself be.

She drank more slowly than he did, and as he sat his cup down, he watched the final swallow slide down her throat. He watched as a glimmer of moisture was left covering her lips. He wrapped his fingers around her empty cup, sliding his fingertips along the back of her hand, smiled to himself when her other hand found the gap in his vambraces that let her fingers find the pulse in his elbow.

He bent his head the final remaining distance between them and fit his lips into her own, tasting the fruit of their wine and the coppery, earthy musk of her mouth. Her fingers tightened almost painfully into his arm—nails digging into flesh through his tunic.

She smiled against his mouth at the growl that escaped his throat.

"Why do you still wear armor?" She asked, her hand slipping over the curves and knots etched into his steel plate.

"Mine didn't need to be repaired when we got back." He teased, stroking his nose against hers.

"Well, we should find somewhere to get you out of it." She responded. Her fingers felt like fire against his neck.

"Downstairs." He responded. "My room." She nodded, pulled his head down to her own again. She slipped her tongue against his lips and into his mouth. He couldn't stop the way his fingers pulled her hips against his plated body. He wanted to feel more of her, but the harder he crushed her against his armor, the softer she became against him.

He dug his hands into her hair and pulled her mouth away from his.

"Downstairs." He repeated. "Come on." Her parted lips called to him, but she nodded. They sat down the last empty cup and she slipped her fingers into his and he pulled her back through the Jorrvaskr doors and down into the living quarters.

No one paid attention to their hurried walk to the living quarters, and once the heavy wooden basement door shut behind them, she pressed him against it, her hands tugging at his hair, her teeth tugging at his cheek, his neck.

He grabbed her by the hair in response, and pushed her off him, walked backwards down the hall towards his room, pulling her with him.

Once his door opened she slammed it shut behind them and it was his turn to press her into a wall. Her frenzied breaths had turned into moans and gasps, but she seemed focused; intent on unlatching his armor, pulling the metal from his body.

He let himself smile at how truly skilled her fingers were—unlike many of the whores he had bedded recently—she had him bare of armor and only in his tunic and breeches almost as quickly as if he would have done it himself.

He quickly chastised himself for that thought; she was not a whore, and the whores had no reason for knowing the specifics of his armor.

But before he could get too far into his self-recrimination, her hands were at his crotch, palm stroking against his cock through the rough linen.

He shoved her away, then quickly followed. His hands circled her waist, pulled her up around his waist and then pushed her bottom up onto the bar counter.

She smiled, pressed her mouth back against his, her tongue was hot, like fire, like a glowing lump of charcoal in his mouth. He grasped at her ankles, her feet were bare without her armored boots, he noticed, and as he slid his hands up her calves and further, flipping her skirt up, she was nothing but hot, smooth skin.

Her fingers delved into his hair, knuckles catching on the few braids that kept his mane in order, and he growled, the tight pain she caused him shooting pleasure through his brain. She responded by pulling his head back, nipping at his neck.

His hands settled at the top of her thighs, rounding the curve of her ass, and he realized he would have ot spare some attention to her clothing in order to remove it. He freed his hands from the blue fabric and set his attention to the laces at the front of her dress. The brown leather of her cincher was familiar enough, leather garments and armor were fairly similar, and he pulled the knot apart and loosened the laces down the front of her body.

Her arms shook behind her as his fingertips pressed against her stomach. Her lips were parted and he realized he needed her lips again. He pulled her face down, and her body slipped off the bar, her torso sliding down his body and skirt bunching between them. His hips moved of their own accord and wedged her against the counter.

Her fingers were at his sides, she pulled his shirt off, and once he was shirtless, together they worked her dress off over her head until she stood spread in front of him wearing only her smallcloths.

She pushed him away from the bar and down towards his bed. His knees hit the frame and he sunk into the reeds and furs. She followed him down and he made the final effort to get their bodies completely bare, reaching for the ties around her breasts, freeing them. She pulled the cloth away and threw it somewhere behind them. Her hair swung down over the two of them and he pulled her head down to him, pressing his tongue into her mouth again. He let his hands slide down the hot skin of her back to rest at the flesh of her hips. He pressed her down against his cock and she broke their kiss with a strangled cry against his mouth.

She ground her hips against his for a moment before she sat up from him. She unlaced his breeches and he lifted his hips to let her pull them down. Her hot mouth settled on his thigh and he couldn't stop the noise that escaped his mouth again.

Her wet lips worked their way up his let until they settled against his sac, and then slowly worked their way up his cock until she sank her mouth down on his length. He let her take him into her mouth; up and down several times until he knew she had to stop. It had been a while since he had brought even a whore into his bed, let alone someone for whom he felt this bizarre, needy desire.

He pulled her up by the armpits and wrapped his arms around her ribs. He rolled them so that she was beneath him. Her legs circled his hips, and slowly, gently, she snaked one hand between them and guided his cock into her body.

She moaned into his mouth again, and he couldn't stop the smile that he pressed against her collar bone. He pulled out and pressed back into her, listening to the way she sang the sensations into the air between them. He forced himself to move slowly, placing open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, stroking and pulling her nipples through his thumb and the edge of his hand.

He felt his end coming too quickly, though, and began pulling harder at her breasts, and panting she stopped him. She rolled them back over so that she was above him again and slipped him back into her heat. She bucked several times against him, then stopped to pull his hands from where they rested at her hips to pluck and clutch at her breasts. She cried out at his rough fingers, and the movement of her hips against his became erratic, frenzied. He forced himself to outlast her, and when she cut out a strangled curse, and her body clenched down on him, he grasped the back of her neck and thrust up into her.

Her voice got louder, a cry rallying him to push harder against her, the vibrations of her voice made his neck tingle where her mouth was biting down at the crook of his neck.

The tightness that pushed him harder into her cleared and he was finished, without words, they snaked their arms around each other and fought to catch their breath.

"You're staying here, right?" He finally managed.

When he felt her nod into his shoulder, he smiled and shifted her, grunting with the effort of using his happily tired muscles. She was limp and relaxed against him as he pulled her back against his front and tugged a few blankets over them against their cooling sweat.

"We can get your things from the bunk room in the morning."


	2. Chapter 2

"I still don't understand why you wouldn't let Eorlund fix your armor though." Farkas threw his tunic on and followed her out the door of his room.

"There's nothing wrong with him." Maren shook her head quietly. He had questioned her yesterday as she changed into the loaned dress from Adrianne Avenicci and left her armor heaped on the female blacksmith's workbench.

"Then why did you take it to Warmaiden's? You're a companion now. You're one of us; he would charge you half as much."

"That's not the point. I want Adrianne to fix it." She shoved past him on the stairs and attempted to leave him behind as she made her way down to the smithy to pick up her armor. She stepped out the doors and took a deep breath of the fresh morning air, chilly on her face and neck.

However the heavy doors opened behind her again, and Farkas pressed an apple into her hands, munching on one himself. "Eorlund is better with Orcish stuff." He pressed, his cold eyes fixing her over the red fruit.

"I want her to fix it, Farkas." She didn't want the apple. She didn't want him following her today. She didn't want to explain why she'd rather have the spunky, hard female blacksmith fix her armor at the shop she owned and opened herself. Didn't want to explain why when given the option she'd rather give her money to the woman.

And she didn't want the apple.

She shoved it in her pocked and started down towards the Gildergreen.

"I don't understand." His heavy footsteps trotted after her. Excellent.

"I guess not." She was struggling now to calm herself. She knew that she was getting dangerously close to losing control of her dragon soul—she could feel a shout beginning to press its way up from the pit of her stomach.

"You could explain why." His statement was really a question, and she stopped her descent down the stairs towards the market square.

She pressed her palms into her eyes and took another deep breath. The cold air helped somewhat to calm her, but she could still feel the fire burning in the pit of her stomach, deep beneath her ribs.

"Because, Farkas." She insisted. She heard him shift from where he stood, coming to stand in front of her. She dropped her hands, lifted her chin to him, idly noted that they were nearly the same height. "Because it's my armor."

"It's the Dragonborn's armor." He added softly. She wasn't sure what he meant, if that being the Dragonborn was more important that her being Maren, if her decision on what was best was something that needed to be generally agreed upon, but shook her head.

"It's _my_ armor. Maren's armor." She insisted.

"Yeah, but you have to fight _dragons_ in it." His hands were on her upper arms. She realized he was concerned.

"You don't think she can fix it?"

"That's not what I said." He shook his head, surprised. "That's not what I mean." He sighed, looked at his feet. "You deserve the best; even she tells everyone that Eorlund is the best blacksmith."

"That's exactly why I gave it to her."

"Why? What does that mean? What do you mean?" He was speaking faster than she had ever heard him, and she realized this was what his frustration sounded like.

They were making each other angry. Over getting her armor fixed.

For a moment she contemplated throwing her hands up and walking away. No one needed to be this involved in her affairs after accompanying each other through one lair. Yes, they had killed together, yes she had trusted him.

Yes, she had… slept with him.

And it was that thought that made a different type of fire rush through her veins. Her face grew hot as she remembered how warm his eyes had looked last night—how different from right now. The icy blue was staring at her, his face was knit. She had clearly frustrated him, but he stood calmly, waiting for her to speak.

She didn't understand him.

She realized she liked him, even though she didn't understand that calm frustration, the anger he was clearly repressing—the anger at her unwillingness to explain, to talk to him—but his insistence to understand.

She reached out and kissed him like she had the night before. He responded after a moment, but he didn't grab her back, press his tongue into her mouth like he had before. She released him, and he was still looking expectantly at her.

"Talk to me. I want to understand."

She nodded finally. "I gave it to her because… Because she's a woman. And she thinks she isn't good enough. Eorlund is great. He has the Skyforge. He has the loyalty of the Companions. But Adrianne… is just as great. She's younger, she's less experienced, but she has the potential to be every bit the fabled smith that Eorlund is. But she gets passed over for him because she doesn't have his advantages. She's not a man. She doesn't have a fabled forge—she just has coals and her bellows and her arms."

"And she's been taking care of me since I first came here, when she was all I could afford, and even then I had to trade scavenged weapons to afford to get my gear fixed. She has heart. She listens to what people need and tailors her work to them. As far as I'm concerned, she is the best."

He nodded silently. He took her hand and they walked through the market to Warmaiden to pay and collect her armor. She inspected Adrianne's work, and noted with pleasure that nicks and scratches she hasn't even noticed had been buffed and polished out, the two heavy tears in the metal where she had caught a greatsword across the back of her shoulder and then in her side had been mended. She had replaced the leather buckles throughout the armor, and also replaced the wool padding inside the helmet, and helped Maren adjust the fit before sending her inside the shop to change into it and return the borrowed dress.

When Maren came back outside, marveling at the fit, the small dents that had been hammered out, she realized Farkas was standing there getting measured, for what she could only assume was a new set of armor for himself.

She sat down on Adrianne's workbench and waited for them to finish. She tossed her helmet between her hands and watched as his icy blue eyes flickered up to her again and again.

When Adrianne finished recording Farkas' measurements, he thanked her, they settled on a price, and he walked over to her together they walked back up to the market on the way to Jorrvaskr.

"So…" She began with a small smile, bumping her shoulder into his. "What did you get?"

"I asked for a set like yours. If I'm going to be helping you fight dragons I need the best."

She stopped somewhere near the well in the center of market.

"You're helping me now?"

"Well," he began, suddenly rubbing the back of his neck. He shrugged finally and spoke. "We worked well together before, and if you think I'm going to let anything happen to you now…" His mouth moved silently over whatever else he wasn't going to say.

"Is that right?" Maren smiled lightly.

"Yeah." He insisted. "I mean, if you're okay with it. If you want to take me with you… you know I want to come."

"Okay. Come on, then."


	3. Chapter 3

As she walked across the dining area of the Companion's mead hall, the newer members were already dining—it must be time for the midday meal—Njada, Ria and Athis waved to her in passing, calling genial greetings, and Maren responded in ind. Torvar, however, was more insistent that the others, offering her a drink right here and now. As much as her growling stomach was highly interested in the idea of food and drink, maybe even some of Tilma's sweetrolls, her aching feet and knees were begging her to get out of her boots and armor.

"Congratulations on a safe return! An occasion to drink to!" He held out the mug to her already.

"I've got to put the packs down, and get out of my gear. If only Farkas would ride a horse we'd have been back a week sooner and I'd have half as many blisters." She offered as a polite way to decline his offer.

"Alright, alright. But when you're done, you're coming back up and having that drink, right? I promise it's the best cure for blisters." he insisted. Maren laughed a little. She was unused to people _wanting_ her company.

"Sure." She agreed with a nod. "You could speed things up if you want to help me with Farkas' pack?: she hoped Torvar would take the bait and shoulder the other man's heavy bag, and she was not disappointed.

"You've gotta tell us about the Greybeards, Maren." He said, taking the pack on his shoulder.

"Yeah?" she asked, following him down the steps, laughing a little as he turned back to bring his tankard with him.

"Yeah. I've always wanted to go. Never had a good reason though. Don't hear that there's really much up there besides the trolls." He opened the door to the living quarters and let her pass through before shutting it, keeping all of the warm air downstairs separate from the drafty mead hall.

"Ice wraiths?" She volunteered.

"Yeah, I mean, I'd go kill some of those too, but you find them in other places too, so why bother going to Ivarstead just to knock a few down? So, I've never really bothered making the pilgrimage." He quieted for a second. "I am a little jealous that you took the big guy with you, though."

For some reason it took Maren a second to realize that he was talking about Farkas as her choice of companion, but when she did, she couldn't figure out what he meant by that. As far as she was concerned, there wasn't ever really a _choice._ It was just that she needed to go, and Farkas was going with her. The two of them never talked about it, she certainly never formally asked him.

She suddenly wondered if that was fairly normal operation for the Companions.

"You're jealous of… Farkas? Why? Why are you jealous, Torvar?"

He made a dismissive gesture and swallowed his mouthful of ale with a noise.

"Nah, nah, you just never go out with anyone else. I mean, I think we all get why, really, but all of us… well, I at least wanna help too."

"Help?" She asked, a little alarmed at how high her voice came out. Maren forced herself to not take offense at the possible suggestion that she even needed help as her tender, sore feet reminded her that she was not invincible.

"You're the dragonborn, right? That's the kind of thing we Companions are supposed to be in the thick of. Fighting for those who can't, saving the world, taking care of what needs to be done. We figured that was at least part of why you decided to join officially." She nodded, she did understand that, and the Companion's reputation did appeal to her. "And hey, I wouldn't mind spending a little more time around you either. Think about it; we could even do a tour of the inns in all the big cities, sampling all the local mead, exterminating trolls and ice wraiths, bears, maybe even another dragon or two?"

Maren could imagine such a 'tour' with Torvar, and it did sound like something that would be plenty of fun—when she had the time for fun—but it was the way he waggishly jabbed her with his elbow at the suggestion of killing another dragon that made her really laugh.

"Maybe someday I'll take you on a drunken dragon raid with me, okay Torvar?" She told him, as she pulled out the heavy iron key Farkas had given her to unlock the door to his room.

As the lock clicked open, she wheeled about and almost raised her fists as the door directly behind her slammed open. She dropped her hands as quickly as she could once she realized that she was in a safe place—and the person standing behind her was none other than Vilkas. His eyebrows canted up in a way that told her very plainly that he was judging her for that reaction.

"Sorry. You scared me." She said, turning back to his brother's room and letting herself in. She hoped that was enough of an apology to stave off any hostilities.

"So. Are you the only one returning after a fortnight?" He asked, and she sighed at the derision plain in his tone.

She and Vilkas had never come to blows—except under the guise of him 'testing her arm'—nor had they ever even actually raised their voices at each other. But that didn't mean that either wanted to spend any time around the other.

Vilkas had been hostile to her since the very first time she had walked into Jorrvaskr, at his brother's invitation. She had been stuck with mismatched gear and a shortsword instead of her usual maces since her escape from Helgen, but she had still helped Farkas and Aela take down a giant. However, Vilkas had looked down his nose at her, had stepped between her and his brother and tried very hard to intimidate her into leaving.

As much as the man drove her crazy with anger and frustration, she knew that his problem lay not precisely with her—but instead with how his brother looked at her.

Whatever she and Farkas had drove his brother mad.

So Maren took another deep breath, took in the calming sights of Farkas' room—the lute and the drum stashed in the corner, the piles of armor, the plate of still uneated sweetrolls—and with every ounce of will she had pushed down the anger this man brought out of her.

"No, he just stopped at Warmaiden's to pick up his new armor." She said with what she hoped was a friendly, genial tone. She realized she had probably taken longer to respond than she should have when Torvar suddenly sprang into movement, almost jumping into Farkas' room, and depositing the pack on the ground in front of the bar.

"I'll just… go back upstairs then." He said by way of a farewell. "Just make sure you come back up for that drink, alright?"

"Got it." She smiled at him as he ducked out the door, nodded at Vilkas and made his way down the hall.

That left her alone with Vilkas who had stepped into the doorway of his brother's room. Maren had noted with rising irritation that even though he didn't have the same sheer mass that Farkas did, he was still a large man, and standing here now, he had crossed his arms and puffed out his chest so that he appeared to take up even more space.

Was he really trying to intimidate her?

Maren tried not to respond in kind as much as the fiery dragon soul living in the pit of her stomach told her to step up to him and not back down. The week they'd spent with the Greybeards had unlocked a frightening power in her voice, and as much as she was itching to _shout_, she also knew she needed to learn a little of that silent, calm, restraint that the monks had exhibited.

The restraint was more of a challenge than the actual shouts, she had realized. What was most upsetting to her at the moment was that as much as she wanted—_needed_-to let out the fire in her throat at this insolent prick (She would never tell Farkas that she thought of his brother as an insolent prick, she decided), she could never take him down because he was Farkas' only blood relative—his only family.

"Why is he picking up armor from that woman?" He asked. Maren didn't like at all the way he mentioned Adrianne—a woman she considered, well, not a friend, but definitely someone to be respected. "Eorlund is perfectly capable of making armor for all of us."

"Because he _bought_ armor from that woman?" She responded, failing to tamp down her annoyance. "She can handle the orchicalcum like my set is made of, and Farkas decided he wanted a new kit, so he went to her."

"Ah." He raised his chin a little higher so that he was looking at her down his square nose—so similar to Farkas and yet so different. "Why aren't you in the bunk room with the other whelps?"

"I was invited to stay here." She tried to make her point as clearly as possible—she sat down in the chair next to the bed and toed off her heavy armored boots and then from beneath the bed pulled out her softer leather shoes and pulled them on. "I've _been_ staying here." She raised her own chin, hoped he took it as a challenge even from her seated position—from her _weaker_ position. Hoped he took the bait; hoped Farkas was done with his new armor already.

He seemed to take some sort of hint; for his eyes began to inspect the room, hopefully landing on her drum next to Farkas' lute, catching the bottles of ale next to Farkas' mead, noticing the second set of armor—women's armor—hanging from the rack on the far wall. His human nose even began sniffing, perhaps realizing just how much of the scent in the room was hers instead of—or even mixed with his brother's.

"I don't like you." Vilkas said, coming to stand in front of her chair, his toes just inches away from her own.

"I've realized this." She assured him. "What I can't figure out is _why_."

"I don't trust you." He hissed. Suddenly he was movement, his hands were braced on the arms of the chair, and his face was directly in hers.

She prided herself on the fact that she didn't jump at his sudden movement, but she really was taken aback by just how much he looked like his brother.

"I don't trust the way my brother has focused on nothing but you in the two months since you've appeared. I don't like it. I don't like what you've done to him." Vilkas' pale eyes were narrow, the soft mouth that looked just like Farkas' was pressed into a thin, angry line.

"What _I've_ done?" Her voice boomed a little too much—his hair puffed back away from his face as she spoke—shouted. She needed to control herself. "What I've done?" She repeated, softer this time. "Vilkas, do you really want to know what I've done to your brother?" She asked him.

He didn't betray anything, kept perfectly still maintaining his presence in her personal space, so she continued anyways, laboriously keeping her voice low.

"I have done _nothing_ to him. _He_ invited me here when I had _nothing_, when I was sick and tired and confused and absolutely _alone_, and I was so unbelievably grateful for someone to look at me in my stolen armor with my too short sword and offer me _help_ that I took it." She was suddenly outraged that he could think she had somehow perverted his brother into being her friend. "I haven't magicked him, I haven't put a spell on him, or given him a potion. Shor's beard, I didn't even have to seduce him! He did that all on his own. I don't know what you think of your brother, but he is a grown man. He is not as helpless or as simple as all of you seem to insist."

"Oh and you respect him, do you?" Vilkas returned.

"Aye." She placed the word carefully between them as if it were a winning hand of cards.

"We'll see." He straightened, and she literally felt the hairs on the back of her neck lie back down. "I still don't trust you." He turned to go, and she felt the air in the room stop tingling.

"Oh! You're back." Vilkas said from the doorway. Maren looked up. She couldn't see anything, but could only assume that Farkas had returned—with apparent stealth she had not seen him use before.

"I am." She smiled to herself to hear his calm, deep voice. She was very glad he was here to deal with his brother. "What are you doing, brother?" He asked from in the hallway still.

"I was just talking to your woman." Vilkas replied, crossing his arms again and indicating her with a toss of his head. She heard Farkas sigh.

"She is not my woman—" He began.

"Is that right?" Vilkas' voice was almost overjoyed.

"She is her own woman." Maren could almost hear Vilkas' jaw snap shut. "And I am my own man. And the two of us like to spend our time together."

"I see." Vilkas' voice was tight. Maren really wished she could know what he was thinking, wanted to understand why this man was so distrustful of her. But Farkas, reached out and gently steered his brother out of the way, stepping towards his room.

"Excuse me, brother." Farkas came inside and shut the door behind him.


End file.
